Horizons
The geese know, and so do I.
There is the faint smell of stored cordite. The clouds roil just barely out of the range of our shared vision. The reckoning is nearly upon us. It would be nigh, except that if it were that close, it would be night. The poetry is concealed in the prose. The stage is set, but the actors are still in the wings. They seek haven, and they will find it, but not just yet. There will be blood shed upon the snow before it is done, each droplet hungrily eating its way through the cold powder.
Too much trouble has been kept aside for a rainy day. Too much vengeance is unrequited; too much hatred has been left without propitiation. If we are not cleansed, and soon, we will be as Babel. The tower will fall, the speeches will fail, the languages will be broken and the faithless (and faithful alike) will be scattered.
The green book is called One Man's Vision.
We all make sacrifices. We all say we do, and we do. The great question is: who exactly are we sacrificing to? Is it worth it that we have burned our youth and burnt our youth? Was it ever worth it to make a great endeavour? Five generations have come and are going, and each had no occasion to doubt.
The last trees will be kept caged, in case they escape.
1 Comments:
I have just re-read The Drawing of the Dark and my sentiments are with you.
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